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.Murphy glanced over his shoulder toward the kitchen.The trash can, filled to the top, was clearly visible.On top of the garbage lay the bloody surgical gloves.He glanced down.His pants were dark, but there were darker stains on his knees—bloodstains.He peeped again through the hole.He saw one of the officers rap on the door.“Detective Murphy,” the cop called out.There was no time and nowhere to run.Murphy’s apartment didn’t even have a back way out.He took a deep breath and pulled open the door.There was just the two of them.One in his midforties, the other in his early twenties.Probably a field-training officer with a rookie partner.The older cop looked familiar, but Murphy couldn’t place him.He stared at Murphy with unfiltered disgust.The rookie just looked embarrassed.Relief flooded through Murphy.If they were here to arrest him, there would be more of them.“You Murphy?” the older cop asked.Murphy tried to speak but the cat shit was clogging his throat.So he just nodded.“The command desk sent us.Homicide has been trying to raise you on the radio and on your cell phone for a couple of hours.”Murphy swallowed hard.The lump of cat shit went down.“The battery died.”The cop shrugged.“None of my business.All I know is we were ordered to tell you to call in right away.” He lifted his portable radio from his belt holder.“You can use my radio if you want.”Murphy waved it off.“That won’t be necessary.” He leaned on the doorjamb.His head was spinning.“Did they say why they want me?”The cop shook his head.“Nobody tells me shit.And that’s the way I like it.”“Okay, thanks for coming by.” Murphy tried to push the door closed, but the older cop jammed it with his foot.“Piece of advice?” the cop said.Murphy didn’t answer.“I’ll give it to you anyway.” He took his foot out of the door.“Take a fucking shower before you go in.You smell like shit.shit and booze.”“I will.Thanks again.” Murphy shut the door.He sprinted into the kitchen and puked in the sink.When he finished heaving, he stumbled into his bedroom, stripped off his pants and threw them into a corner.He found his suit coat hanging on the bedroom doorknob and tossed it into the corner too.Next, he dropped his shirt, tie, undershirt, and boxers on top of his suit.He found his shoes and slung them into the corner.Murphy stared at the pile of clothes.His suit pants had Marcy Edwards’s blood staining the knees.There was probably more of her blood on his shirt and tie and on his shoes.He had probably left bloody footprints inside her house that the crime lab could match to his shoes.Then there were the bloody gloves in his kitchen.Murphy knew there was more than enough evidence in his apartment to put him in Angola for the rest of his life, maybe even land him on death row.He wouldn’t be the first New Orleans cop to get the death penalty.He laid out a clean suit and shirt on the bed, then added a tie, a pair of boxers, a T-shirt, and a pair of socks.At the back of his closet he found an old pair of black wing tips.He wiped off the dust and set them next to his bed.Standing at the bathroom sink, he downed three generic painkillers.Then he stared at himself in the mirror and realized he looked even worse then he felt.So he swallowed three more pills.He stood under the showerhead for ten minutes with the water as hot as he could stand it, trying to scald himself clean.Then he picked up a washcloth and a bar of soap and scrubbed his skin raw.He washed his hair and shaved.After getting dressed, Murphy slipped his gun onto his right hip and clipped his gold detective’s badge to the front of his pants.He was sure it would be the last time he would ever wear either.They know what I’ve done and they’re giving me a chance to turn myself in.Murphy stepped out of his apartment door and locked it behind him.He had given up the idea of killing himself [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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